Healed
by oselle
Summary: A brief vignette of Cormallen, March, 3019


_Author's Note: In one of the first reviews that I received for _The Bedside Reflections of Bell Gamgee_, Nilmandra asked if I planned on posting this story here. It had originally been posted on Nindaiwe, and since that site is not defunct, I decided I would (what good are stories anyway, if they're trapped in some place where no one will read them?)   
  
I've always found Frodo and Sam's awakening in Cormallen a bit dissatisfying…two weeks in bed and suddenly they're both fit as fiddles? That's probably why I love Cormallen fics so much. Here's my short contribution to the genre.  
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He was in pain at all times, but could not voice it. His right hand ached terribly, a sickening pain that at times seemed to reach to his elbow, even to his shoulder. His neck burned. His back pained him and he longed to turn onto his side, but could not do so on his own. His eyes were so swollen he could open them only a little, and even then his vision seemed indistinct. Frodo wondered if perhaps he had been struck blind, or almost blind.   
  
Frodo felt hands on him, but could not see to whom they belonged. They were kind, and gentle. They undressed him, and bathed him, and dressed him again. They lifted him up and cradled him so that he could drink and eat, if the thin broth they gave him could be considered eating. The first time he had been raised to a sitting position, the effort had made him so weak and dizzy that he had heard himself whimpering. He had wanted to speak, to tell them _please, no, put me down, let me lie down_, but did not have the strength, and could only cry like an infant. He had felt tears leak from under his eyelids and roll down his face, as a voice whispered soothingly in his ear. He had not been able to make out the words, but their comforting tone was unmistakable.   
  
It was better now, although he did not know how much time had passed. It was better now, he could suffer them to lift him without crying, he could swallow what they gave him without choking, he could open his eyes enough to see, at least a little. Yet he could not speak. Words flowed through his mind, but he could not bring them to his lips. _Will I always be this way?_ he wondered. _Am I to be dumb?_  
  
The thought of living without speech did not trouble him. He only wished that he could ask for Sam. His last memory of him had been on the side of the mountain, and since he had awoken, he had not heard anyone speaking Sam's name. _Are you dead, my dear Sam?_ he thought, and he turned his face into his pillow to weep silent tears.  
  
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His waking hours began to dwindle. He slept most of the time, but it was not like sleep at all, it was a pitch-black emptiness into which he fell after his rare moments awake.   
  
Once he thought he saw Gandalf, but knew that could not be so. Gandalf had fallen, this he remembered. His mind was playing tricks on him.   
  
Another time, he believed that Strider visited him, only this Strider was clad in fine raiment, not in travel-worn garments. How odd.   
  
_Strider, is that you?_ Frodo thought, bemused. _Remember that night at the inn? You thought I was very silly, I'm sure! Oh, the things I have seen since then, my friend. I would tell you, if I could._   
  
He thought he heard Strider speaking to someone, asking about him. The voices were far above him, and a vague memory came to him of lying in his bed as a child, in the days after his parents' death, and hearing his relations discuss him.   
  
"He is not getting better. He _was_, or so it seemed."  
  
"And now?"  
  
"We are losing him. He is fading, despite all our efforts."  
  
_Good. Let me go._   
  
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It was morning, or so he thought, for the light in the tent was bright and fresh, as it is early in the day. Someone had come, another unseen set of hands, and had undressed him, and turned him onto his stomach to wash his back. He felt some small strength come back to him with the warm water, and the caress of cloth on his body. He took in a breath and cleared his throat. He had to ask. He needed to know. He did not have much time left.  
  
"Sam?" he said, but it was only an exhalation of breath. He could not speak.   
  
He felt someone lean over him, and a warm hand on his shoulder. "What is that, sir? Are you trying to say something?"  
  
_Yes, yes I am! Please stay!_ He took another breath and concentrated on speaking, remembering how it felt. "Sam?" he said again, and this time he heard his own forgotten voice, dry and weak.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Sam…please…where…?"  
  
Suddenly he was alone. Whoever had been with him had left abruptly. _Then he is dead_, Frodo thought. He clutched the sheet beneath him, and trembled with sorrow. He could not weep, so great was his grief. He felt himself falling into that blackness that was not sleep, and felt his heartbeat, slow and disinterested.   
  
Distantly, Frodo heard others come into the room, a soft hum of voices. He did not care what they said. He heard movement around his bed, but did not bother to open his eyes.   
  
He felt himself being lifted, or rather, felt the bed beneath him lifted. He knew that he was being moved, and could not imagine why. _Leave me alone, please, just let me die here._   
  
The bed was carried a short way and then set down. Frodo again felt someone bend over him, and a hand stroked his hair away from his face.   
  
"There's your Sam, see sir? Open your eyes, sir, just a little."  
  
Frodo forced his eyes open, and saw that his bed was now next to another. Upon it he saw Sam, lying on his back, his arms at his sides, sleeping peacefully.   
  
"Oh," he said, and for the first time since awakening, a smile crossed his face. He reached his hand out, and rested it on Sam's arm, just above the elbow. His hand was so heavily bandaged that he could only feel Sam's nightshirt with the exposed tips of his fingers. He longed to clutch Sam's arm, but his hand was too weak. And yet, the simple act of touching Sam's arm eased the pain in that wounded hand, for the first time.   
  
Now Frodo did weep, with relief and joy.   
  
"You see sir? He's all right."  
  
Frodo longed to thank this kindly person, who had heard him and understood what he needed. But he could not take his eyes from Sam. With great effort, Frodo raised himself up onto his left arm. He felt hands on his back. "Easy now, sir. You haven't sat up by yourself yet."  
  
He did not listen. He had no desire to sit up, only to be closer to Sam. His bed had been placed so close to Sam's that there was no gap between them. He pushed himself forward and closed the small distance. Frodo was shocked by his own weakness, as even that small movement made him shudder, and he felt sweat break on his face. It seemed that he crossed a mile or more, just covering those few inches.   
  
He laid his head on Sam's shoulder and wrapped his arm around his chest. Sam stirred in his sleep and sighed. He did not awaken, but he raised his arm and laid it over Frodo's.   
  
"Sam," Frodo said again, and sighed with contentment. He let his eyes fall closed, and felt sleep come over him, real sleep at last. He surrendered to it with gratitude, the soft sound of Sam's heart following into his dreams.   
  
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Again, he heard voices, high above, discussing him.   
  
"He is getting better. He sleeps peacefully now. It is extraordinary…all the healers could do nothing for him."  
  
"It was not healers that he needed."   
  
Frodo smiled, and slept.


End file.
